


Tear You Apart

by rissalf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, bfp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7418116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald contemplates his relationship with Edward Nygma.  Set following S02E09 - A Bitter Pill to Swallow</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear You Apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilentSinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/gifts).



> Forgive me.

_Plip._

In the nothingness between dreams and consciousness, Oswald Cobblepot could almost be mistaken for a soul at peace. The ache in his mending gut, and the persistent twinge of pain in his bad leg, were little more than gauzy memories in that in-between world. Somebody else’s burdens to bear.

_Plip._

_Plip, plip._

Beneath the protective shroud of sleep, he could almost believe that Mother were still alive, eager as ever to dote on her darling boy, and that his empire – that shiny brass ring he’d worked so hard to clutch for his very own – were thriving once more.

Yes, for eight or so hours every night, Oswald was on top again, and all was right with the– 

_Plip._

For the third night in a row, a soft, persistent dripping from the bathroom faucet in Edward’s studio apartment lulls Oswald from his slumber, shattering the illusion like a cracked funhouse mirror. The afflictions of everyday life are born anew, nightmares made flesh and bone. All because Ed won’t see to the damn tap.

Oswald squeezes his eyes tighter and pulls the blankets close – as if doing so will keep reality from its penetrating advances, and idly wonders how he came to be here. How the one-time King of Gotham has found himself lying beneath the sheets of a bed that is much too soft, sharing such intimate quarters with the wholly infuriating, and wholly inexorable, Edward Nygma.

Though perhaps the better question is: Why has he stayed so long? In the beginning, when Ed found him bleeding and near death after his fateful run-in with Theo Galavan, the idea was simply to heal. And while the guise of "laying low" offered a serviceable enough excuse for extending his stay, at some point Oswald began to feel a certain level of comfort with his strange benefactor. Ed turned out to be a surprisingly capable nurse – and decent enough company, when the mood befitted him. They shared a taste for the morally perverse, bonding over the sadistic snuffing of one Mr. Leonard – Ed proving an eager (perhaps too eager) study.

Their quixotic companionship began, as these things often do, with white hot rage and the intent to kill. One desperate, dreary evening, Ed had dared suggest that Mother’s senseless murder was a blessing – that life would be infinitely better now that Oswald’s troublesome attachments were no more. The audacious assumption had earned Nygma a knife to his throat, and Oswald, trembling with fury and blinded by grief, had every intention of bleeding the bastard dry. But the way Edward had looked at him then – completely devoid of fear, and with a gleam of fucking _excitement_ in his eyes – made him stay his hand, and had, in fact, given Oswald much to think about.

Edward Nygma wasn’t afraid of him, but the man was different from the others – from the Fish Mooneys, the Carmine Falcones, the Sal Maronis – who, to their folly, had chosen to disregard Oswald altogether. Edward had looked into Oswald’s eyes and saw exactly what the mobster was capable of. And he embraced it. Embraced the danger, embraced the darkness, embraced the Penguin – warts and all. Edward Nygma was a kitten willfully playing at the jaws of a lion.

And, for once, Oswald finds himself entirely perplexed.

 

Having given up on ever getting back to sleep, he tosses in bed with great effort and is immediately greeted with an expanse of mangled sheets where Ed would usually lie. Oswald sits bolt upright, entirely awake now and stricken with panic.

Where in the _fuck_ has he gone?

Ed doesn’t sleepwalk. He doesn’t snore, and he’s not an insomniac. For 17 days, Edward has slept, still as a rock and oblivious to everything around him. Oswald isn’t worried for Ed; he’s perturbed, and the nagging voice of mistrust in his head wonders if this is when the other shoe is going to drop. Because it must. Because no matter how comfortable he has become with Edward Nygma, Oswald knows better than to put faith in anyone but himself.

And so, when the large metal door to the apartment slides open, Oswald freezes for a moment before letting out a weary breath when Ed slinks inside.

“Did you have a nice stroll?” He slips out of bed and switches on the bedside lamp, ready to interrogate his host on his whereabouts, but Ed, it seems, has already read his mind.

“I was disposing of the last of Mr. Leonard,” Ed replies cheerfully, unbuttoning his soiled shirt and slipping off his shoes. “Leave them too long and they start to smell, you know.”

“No shit,” Oswald scowls. He regards Ed’s bloodied undershirt, lingering a beat or two longer than perhaps he should, before remembering himself and rolling his eyes. “You’re doing a fantastic job of being inconspicuous, my friend.”

“Fear not, Oswald, this isn’t my first rodeo.” Ed snickers then, as though he has some unbelievably clever secret he can hardly contain, and Oswald knows he’s been up to something.

“Is there something you’d like to share, Ed?”

_"The eight of us go forth – not back, to protect our king from a foe’s attack.”_

Oswald stares blankly. It’s far too late for nonsensical word games, and what little patience he possesses is eroding with each staccato _plip_ hitting the sink basin _._

“Give up? Pawns!” Ed exclaims with a childish giggle, and it’s clear he sees no need to offer further explanation.

Oswald’s shoulders slump as he lets out a weary sigh. “I should have slit your throat when I had the chance.”

“Oh, but you would never.” Edward smiles, regarding Oswald with the very look one might reserve for a child threatening to run away from home. “You’re as harmless as a mouse.”

“Fuck you!” Oswald snarls. For the life of him, he cannot tell if the cunt is mocking him with that simpering grin of his, or if Ed actually is as innocent as he appears. Either way, he really has had enough of Edward _fucking_ Nygma and his smug, thinly veiled insults for one day.

He’s going back to fucking bed – even staring at the ceiling would be preferable to this. But Ed quickly steps in his path, towering over the mobster with a look that immediately makes his insides knot.

“I _meant_ that you’re harmless to _me,”_ Ed says softly, placing a hand on Oswald’s shoulder as he does.

The scientist’s guileless expression has disappeared like spring snow. He’s entirely serious now, and the speed with which his personality has pivoted is more than a little jarring. Ed is a live grenade, and Oswald can’t decide whether he should take cover, throw himself on top of the man, or – _just fucking breathe dammit._

“You want to see me bleed though,” Ed murmurs, slowly stroking Oswald’s shoulder with his thumb. “Don’t you?”

Oswald swallows hard. This is indeed something he wants – very much, in fact. During his stay with Edward, the mobster had indulged a libidinous fantasy or two. _Lest I die of boredom,_ he would tell himself. Those fantasies often began with blood, and they always ended up somewhere far beyond what one would consider decent. And by God, Oswald cannot help himself now. His cock twitches at the thought of Ed crying out, of fist hitting flesh and bone with a resonant _crack_ , of making Edward bleed.

Because, in his deepest, darkest desires, Oswald wants nothing more than to see that lush trickle of crimson work its way down Ed’s face, to watch it pool in the curve of his pink lips before spilling over, to feel his own breath hitch as that wayward droplet creeps to the very end of Edward’s chin. God, the very thought of it is making him hard now; he hardly cares if Ed can see it. Oswald wants to luxuriate in that sticky warmth as it drips onto his own pale flesh, a baptism in blood. He wants to be marked, owned – even if he’s not entirely sure why.

Ed inches closer, his lips curled into an unflappable smirk, and it’s as though he knows each and every dark thought the former king of Gotham has ever entertained. Oswald cannot escape him — he’s not even sure he wants to try — but as Ed’s breath warms his forehead, the mobster snaps out of his reverie, shuffling backwards until he finds himself trapped between the tall man and the sofa.

The two men merely regard one another for a moment, until finally Ed removes his glasses and tosses them onto the bed.

“Hit me,” Ed dares him. He shifts his stance to prepare for the blow, then stares expectantly at his bewildered guest.

“I…” The request comes out of nowhere, and Oswald isn’t even sure he’s serious. But he also doesn’t care. An open invitation to deck the vainglorious prick is not something he’s about to pass up.

Timidity melts away as Oswald throws himself into the punch. It hits Ed square in the nose, and for a moment he looks stunned, bringing a hand up to touch the sanguine stream before his mouth twists into a wide, toothy grin.

“Again,” Ed demands, with all the exuberant glee of a child begging one more turn on the teacups.

His knuckles fucking sting, but Oswald acquiesces. Of course he does. It's been far too long since he beat the ever-loving shit out of someone, and really, Oswald thinks, there's nothing more therapeutic than a touch of sweet ultraviolence. The fact that it indulges his masturbatory daydreams is the cherry atop a truly salacious sundae.

This time, the punch sends Ed reeling backwards into the piano. Between the ridiculous cacophony of mistruck piano keys and Ed’s downright delirious laughter, Oswald himself cannot help but titter as he lands blow after bloody blow. The act is undeniably thrilling; Ed’s delirium infectious.

But as Oswald winds up once more, splattered with blood and cackling madly, something inside of Ed visibly shifts. While he’s still smiling broadly, it’s controlled now – knowing, even. Ed is a shark, and he smells blood in the water. He catches Oswald by the wrist and whirls him around with alarmingly little effort, pushing him over the back of the sofa and hastily tugging at his plaid pajama bottoms.

“Is this what you want, too?” Ed purrs. “I’ll just bet you do.”

With one hand pressing Oswald into the sofa cushion, Ed loosens his pants and frees his fully erect cock. He’s already achingly hard, imagining the heat and the tight clench of muscle closing around his considerable length, when his recuperating house guest hisses a peevish _“yes_ ”.

That, apparently, is all Ed needs to hear. He wastes no time spreading Oswald’s cheeks and forcing himself inside, eliciting a sharp squawk as Oswald struggles to adjust to the sudden penetration.

“Good answer,” Ed growls. Grabbing a fistful of unkempt hair, he tugs Oswald’s head back and then begins to move, slowly, laughing softly at his plaintive whimpering. “Now let’s hear it again.”

Clutching the man’s hip with his free hand, Ed increases both speed and force, and Oswald can do little but cling to the sofa cushion, the discordant slapping of skin against skin keeping time like a drummer in some bawdy barroom band.

“God, _fuck_ , Ed,” he wails, trying – and failing – to keep his voice from cracking. “I– _fuck– God, fuuuck.”_

It’s hard, it’s fast, it’s – quite frankly – brutal, and Oswald isn’t certain just how much of Ed’s savage thrusting he’ll be able to endure. He feels as though he’s being ripped apart – in more ways than one, and the damp spot spreading across his stomach is almost certainly the hallmark of a busted stitch.

But _fuck,_ this feels right. Buried in that pain, a seed of want sparks to life, burning hotter and brighter the more Ed abuses him. Oswald moans, desperate to tend to his own painfully hard cock, trapped awkwardly against the unyielding frame of the sofa, but he can do nothing but clutch the rough green fabric in front of him and fight the tears welling in his eyes.

Roaring out a litany of profanity, Ed comes at last, but he’s nowhere near finished yet. He flips Oswald over and pulls him up into a searing kiss – both men groping desperately, Oswald moaning into Ed’s mouth, pleading wordlessly for his own relief. Oswald can taste him, salty and metallic, the mingling of sweat and blood a far better cocktail than any libidinous fantasy could conjure.

When Ed wraps his large, blood-slicked hand around Oswald’s cock and pumps him furiously, it takes only a few strokes before the mobster is crying out, semen spilling over Ed’s hand and his own bandaged stomach.

Breathless, battered and barely able to stand, Oswald is both unwilling and unable to leave Ed’s embrace. He’s so fucking tired, and so unbelievably sore, that even this alien moment of intimacy is a soothing poultice for both body and mind. So it’s with no small amount of agitation when Ed pulls away and insistently pushes Oswald to his knees. He cannot fathom what else the man could possibly want from him, but he’s too fucking exhausted to quibble.

Until, that is, he’s facing one very large, very bloody cock.

“Jesus, _fuck_ – _”_ Oswald gapes, all at once rendered speechless and wide-eyed, unable to tear his gaze from the hematic display.

“Shhh, I gave you what you wanted, Oz,” Edward coos, softly stroking Oswald’s ruffled black hair with his long, slender fingers. “You wanted to see me bleed. I let you hit me. You wanted me to fuck you. I fucked you. You wanted to be marked by me. Well…”

A chilling giggle from Ed fills the room as his fingers cease their gentle stroking and twist in the shorter man’s hair, and Oswald is forced to look him in the eye. The bastard is grinning wildly again, and the submissive Penguin can do nothing but watch as Ed wipes the bloody appendage on his face, from one cheek to the other, like a painter drawing his first broad stroke across a pristine canvas.

 

Oswald tosses in bed with great effort, and is immediately greeted with an expanse of mangled sheets where Ed would normally lie. He raises up from bed, and watches as Ed works to secure a slight figure, gagged and bound to one of the kitchen chairs.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Ed beams, looking up from his quarry at the sound of squeaking bedsprings. “I brought you something. Well, some _one_. You seemed to get so much enjoyment out of punishing Mr. Leonard that I thought you might like teaching this fella a lesson as well. Mr. Galavan certainly has no shortage of pawns for us to play with.

“Oswald?”

None of the words register. All Oswald can see is Ed leering over him with an expression of malevolent glee; all he can feel is the tip of Ed’s cock sweeping across his lips. Oswald limps to the bathroom and flips on the light, and begins to chuckle softly when it’s only the bags beneath his eyes that greet him in the mirror. It had all been a dream. Of course it had.

It’s as though he’s just left behind a twisted and terrifying Wonderland. His lips part in an exhale of relief, but strangely enough, he cannot help but feel … empty. Oswald remembers every detail, every second of what happened between he and Ed – not just the humiliation, but that quiet moment spent in Ed’s arms, listening to his heart patter, savoring each ragged breath. When, for once, the waking world almost felt right.

_Plip._

Except it isn’t.

Silently cursing the leaky tap once more, Oswald switches off the light and endeavors to bury his melancholy; after all, there’s a 170-pound gift in the next room that needs unwrapping. He rejoins his host in the living area just as Ed finishes his trussing, a jovial tune whistling softly through the scientist’s lips.

Finally satisfied that his semi-conscious victim is going nowhere, Ed turns and offers up a long, curved boning knife.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

Oswald eyes first the knife, and then Ed’s face. His lip is split and slightly swollen, and a sickly purple bruise mars his left eye like wine spilled across alabaster tile.

“Did our guest put up a fight?” he asks cautiously.

Ed smiles down at him, the embers of something almost sinister flashing across cool, brown eyes before dying away. For now.

“No, not at all,” he replies pleasantly, his fingers languidly brushing Oswald’s as he hands over the knife.

“I asked for it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't think I'd do it, did ya? :)
> 
>  
> 
> [I bet now you're thinking to yourself, 'Boy, I would love to see this visualized!' Well, click here to see what my beautiful crumpet hath created. <333](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/149515707157/you-wanted-to-see-me-bleed-i-let-you-hit-me-you)
> 
>    
> [And in a lovely drawing!](http://nygmaticreport.tumblr.com/post/151775610204/please-do-not-remove-the-watermark-it-is-a)


End file.
